Page 3 of Reckless Desires

Clarke Daniels, my father, the drunk. The only thing he has on my mother is that he at least stuck around.

When I finally collapse onto my old bed in the room I grew up in, the world spins, but not from the toxic serum that is liquor. Nah, that’s his vice. I’m swirling from the thoughts I suppressed all damn day. Potentially letting Frankie down, this Isla Robles girl I need to call, the anniversary of Mom high-tailing it the fuck outta this city. All the bullshit jumbles up, dancing in front of my eyelids when I close them, relentless and unforgiving.

No different than every other night.

Two

Isla

___________

Suton (n.) the approach of death

or the end of something.

___________

“Do we think Titi Antonella is going to have one too many chichaitos and rival her performance at the last family party?” My sister Veronica gives me a sideways smile and her dark eyes light up as she sways her hips to the salsa music coming from the sound system one of our tios set up in our abuela’s home.

I shrug because I have a feeling I know the answer, but I’m really hoping we don’t have the same explosion we had a few weekends ago. Titi Antonella found out that her husband, Tio Luis, had been messaging an old girlfriend halfway through the party and although he said it was innocent, she felt otherwise. Tio said the old girlfriend had reached out to him first and was just asking about his family and he simply replied.

I’d probably be pissed if my husband was talking to an old flame, too.

If I had a husband.

But seeing as I can’t keep a damn fiancé, I won’t have to worry about that anytime soon.

Abuela is wearing her floral cooking apron over her typical pink nightgown with her chanclas to match, pulling dinner out of the oven, as the rest of the family dances and sings to the music. Veronica and I are stealing some of the rellenos de papa from the table as Abuela brings the arroz con gandules to the long table and sets it down in the middle. The table already has a wide assortment of some of my favorite foods and I’m so hungry, I’m practically salivating over it. You can’t find better cooking than in my abuela’s home. Anywhere. Ever. I’d bet my life on it.

Veronica grabs a plate as Abuela shouts over the music, “Ven a comer!” The rest of our family, mami and dad, our titis and tios, primos and primas, and abuelo all make their way to the table. There’s twenty-one of us in total, and the table fits every single one of us, even if we have to pull up a few lawn chairs to squeeze everyone in.

Veronica and I have always felt just a little out of sync with the rest of the family, aside from our father, because it took us awhile to pick up Spanish. Mami tried to teach it to us, but we went to an English-speaking school and spoke English at home because of our father. We can speak it now, we just don’t use it often aside from around our grandparents. We get together often because while we have a big family, we’re all close.

Crazy—but close.

You never know when Titi Antonella is going to throw a dish at Tio Luis’ head or when the cops will come pounding on the door because our music is too loud and we’re dancing, lost in the music, unable to hear anyone at the door.

We’re a typical Puerto Rican family, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Isla,” Titi Isabella, who I was named after, and who is also my madrina, my godmother, calls to me, looking down the table toward where Veronica and I sit. “I met a young man today. Muy guapo, nena. I got his number for you.” She eyes me and winks, spooning some of the arroz onto her plate. I must have a sour look cross my face because her dark eyebrows draw together.

“I’m not really looking for any guapo young men, Titi,” I confess.

“Yeah, she’s going to switch teams like me, isn’t that right, Is?” Veronica laughs before she even finishes saying it and all eyes are on me.

I shoot Veronica a look and then announce to my family that no, I am not going to start liking girls like Veronica. I am very much still interested in men, despite my most current breakup and how much it gutted me.

Talk finally dies down as we all devour Abeula’s food. The arroz con gandules is one of my favorites, and probably one of the oldest dishes in our family. It’s what my abuela first taught me to make—a mixture of rice, beans, olives, spices, salchichon, and her homemade sofrito. Rice and beans is a staple in our community; it’s the essence of any Puerto Rican home and one of my favorite meals. Family gatherings like this one make me remember just how important family is. My eyes scan over the large kitchen and dining room of the home that my Abeulo, Abuela, Titi Antonella, and Tio Luis share, along with Titi and Tio’s three children. It’s filled with beautiful, framed art prints of Puerto Rico. The bright, fluorescent homes overlooking the ocean in Old San Juan was photographed by my abeula when she was young, and it’s my favorite of all the hanging art on the walls.

Veronica takes a bite of her food and nudges me.“You okay over there, Is?”

“Totally,” I tell her, thinking about how one day I’d love a home just like this with a big family all around me. I don’t think I necessarily want to share it with anyone aside from a husband and children, but I want this. I want big family get-togethers and my mami’s side of the families’ culture. I want my children to know where they came from and learn to have the respect I do for our family’s legacy.

A shriek pulls me from my thoughts and I realize Titi Antonella is fuming, her face red.

“Hijo de puta!” Titi Antonella stands, screaming at Tio Luis, and Veronica and I have to control our laughter because we absolutely called it.

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